


Layover

by raiast



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dark Will, M/M, Meet-Cute, Stranger Sex, Strangers to Lovers, They Flip!, Unprotected Sex, hahaha ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 13:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiast/pseuds/raiast
Summary: When Hannibal misses his connecting flight to DC he is forced to obtain a hotel room for the evening. When the last remaining room is seemingly double-booked he realizes that the adult thing to do is generously offer to share the space. And if the other man in need of lodging happens to be a seemingly disheveled, ill-mannered and altogether beautiful stranger, well, that's just fine.





	1. Missed Connection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ishxallxgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishxallxgood/gifts).



> Prompted by ishxallxgood in regards to an actual article about two strangers being asked to share a hotel room after missing a connecting flight. 
> 
> I have no excuses and no apologies, though I do have a [Tumblr.](https://raiast.tumblr.com/)

“I’m very sorry, sir, but the last call for boarding was fifteen minutes ago. The flight has already begun taxiing to the runway.”

Hannibal resists the urge to release the sigh swelling in his chest. “How unfortunate.”

The service agent flashes him a sad smile, likely with the intention of commiserating with his regrettable situation, though her own relief that he’s not about to cause a scene overwhelms the gesture. “There’s another flight out to Dulles…” she trails off as she taps away on her keyboard, staring intently at her screen. “Tomorrow morning at 10:15. Plenty of availability left. Would you like to book a seat?”

“Please,” he retrieves his wallet and passes her a credit card. “Can you recommend a convenient hotel? I prefer Four Seasons or DoubleTree, though the Hyatt is acc--”

“No, no, no,” the panicked gasping draws the attention of Hannibal, as well as the agent that is assisting him. He turns a curious eye to the noise as a frantic, sweaty and altogether _disheveled_ man sprints passed the empty seats of the gate to the window near them, wide eyes glued to the space outside that is distinctly plane-less. “No, no, NO!” his murmured pleas reach new heights as the frustrated man throws the duffel bag slung over one arm to the ground and gives it a kick. “ _Shit!”_ he barks, continues to kick at his bag. “Shit, shit--”

Hannibal clears his throat, turning away from the spectacle and back to the agent before him. “Acceptable as well,” he finishes smoothly, as though the interruption hadn’t occurred.

The woman hands back his credit card, along with his new boarding ticket. Once more, she is wearing that expression of poorly concealed relief as one of her coworkers sees to the frothing man. “I’m afraid you’ll find all of the nearby hotels are at capacity--there’s a convention this weekend. I believe we still have availability at the InterContinental, however. There is immediate access to it from this terminal through the TSA checkpoint at Gate C25. Would you like me to call ahead and confirm availability?”

“Please,” Hannibal requests again.

\---

As his checked luggage had been sent ahead to Dulles without him, Hannibal finds himself distinctly unprepared for another evening away from home. He opts to stop off at a convenience store on his walk to the hotel, happy to pay the exorbitant airport pricing if it means a proper toothbrush rather than the weak-bristled, three inch complimentary toiletry the hotel would provide. He picks up a copy of the Times while he’s at it, though it’s already ten o’clock and he will likely just retire for the evening after he gets checked in. He’s just stepping out of the store when he spots the tantrum-prone man from their gate not ten feet ahead of him.

“...in Minneapolis tonight,” the man is speaking into his cell phone. “Next flight out is tomorrow mor-- _No,_ I’m--Jack, I’m _sorry_ ,” he gives a frustrated groan. Normally, Hannibal wouldn’t be so crass as to eavesdrop on a phone call, however, this man is aware that he is in a public space and is doing little to temper the volume of his voice. “I’m not asking you to pay for it,” he snaps. “Look, I’ll be back by two tomorrow, alright?” he ends the call without a proper farewell, sighs and mutters something that sounds like ‘thank God’ as he veers suddenly into a Duty Free and strides toward a display of liquor with purpose.

He can’t help but cast his eyes to the side as the man snatches up a fifth of whiskey and proceeds in the direction of the checkout, taking in messy curls and a stubbled jaw before the man reaches the counter and turns his back upon Hannibal fully.

He finds it interesting how the same situation can evoke such wildly disparate reactions in two different people. The human mind truly is a marvel; identical on an organic level but functioning (or not) in all sorts of different capacities when neurons fire and chemicals are released. No two people react the same way to stressors or relaxants, pain or pleasure. Some, for example, might keep a cool and level head when presented with an unexpected inconvenience while others might resort to outbursts of anger and reliance on alcohol.

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickle, his predator mind kicking into gear as Hannibal realizes he is being followed. He squares his shoulders and brushes the instinct away, knowing that, just as he had fallen into step behind the other unfortunate, left behind passenger when he left the shop, this man is now tracking Hannibal’s route to the same hotel. He passes through the gate indicated by the service agent, passes the rental car company and reaches the lobby of the InterContinental Hotel. 

He waits at the front door, holding it open for a woman weighed down with a carry on over each shoulder and two rolling suitcases, two young children in tow doing little to keep out of the way of the luggage. She rewards him with a very sincere thank you, again when Hannibal notices a dog plush stuffed haphazardly into the backpack on the young girl’s shoulder fall to the ground and steps after them to return it. He catches the front door just as it is about to swing closed as the young man overtakes his progress and strides up to the front desk.

Hannibal might have felt put-out by the apparent jump in queue had there not been two hospitality workers stationed at the desk. “I believe a room was called ahead for me by the service agent at my gate; Hannibal Lecter.” He explains as the man next to him drops his duffel to the ground and grunts, “Will Graham.”

“Yes, Dr. Lecter, I have you down for one night in a single Queen…” a few buttons are clicked on her screen, a key card retrieved and swiped through her machine, “You’ll take those elevators up to three and to the left, Suite 323--”

There is a distinct echo as the room number is spoken and for a moment there is silence as the two front desk staff turn toward each other in confusion, Hannibal and the man next to him (Will Graham, his fastidious mind supplies) share a glance of equal befuddlement before turning back to the staff.

The woman assisting Hannibal titters a small laugh, “Well, obviously we’ve had a little mix-up here,” she notes, her smile light, “Not sure how that happened, but if you’ll give me just a moment I’ll get you sorted out.” She turns to the computer, clicking and typing confidently and Hannibal is certain that if she is not yet in a managerial position then she is certainly on track for one. A sense of foreboding rises within him, however, when, with each subsequent click the woman’s shoulders grow more tense, smile turns strained to stay glued in place as her eyebrows begin to pull together.

When she turns back to them with an apologetic expression that is clearly borderline horrified, Hannibal knows that something has gone terribly wrong.

“It’s the last room,” she begins.

“Who’s name is it under?” Mr. Graham interrupts tiredly; his tone suggests that he will not be surprised at all at his luck if the answer is not his own.

“Both,” she squeaks out. “I don’t...it’s a new system, you see, and we’ve encountered a few bugs that the software developers…” she trails off when she can see that neither man before her cares to hear the woes of their buggy system. 

“We’re both adults,” the shaggy man beside him begins cautiously with an appraising look in Hannibal’s direction, “Maybe--”

“It’s a single Queen,” Hannibal interrupts, catching on to Mr. Graham’s line of thinking. Certainly there would be no issue in a room with two double beds, odd as it might be, but…

He studies the man next to him, eyes closed and fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His full, pink lips are pulled tight, as though another outburst is itching to escape them, his stubbled jaw clenched shut. On the whole, he’s not an unattractive man, abhorrent clothing and ill manners aside. “Flip you for it?” he suggests sardonically and Hannibal pulls out of his observations.

It occurs to him to point out that his service agent was on the phone confirming his reservation while Will Graham was still throwing a temper tantrum, but then the man opens his eyes and turns them toward Hannibal’s, big blue orbs that seem to beg for the opportunity for _one thing_ to go right and Hannibal finds himself saying, “As you say: we are both adults. There’s no reason we can’t share a room for one evening. I assume a rollaway is an option?” he turns the question to the desk staff, who look endlessly relieved at the prospect of avoiding an altercation and agree readily.

Will Graham shrugs helplessly. “Yeah. Fine, whatever.”

The elevator ride is a quiet one, each man keeping to their own corner and staring pointedly in any direction that isn’t at each other. Hannibal makes it to the door first, sliding the card in and out fluidly and holding the door open to allow his unexpected companion entrance. He can’t help but notice the hint of pink staining the man's cheeks under all that scruff as he slips into the room first with a murmured thanks. He steps out of his shoes immediately, pushing them out of the walking path with one lazy kick before dropping his duffel bag onto one of the two armchairs.

He’s glancing about the room (but fervently avoiding the large, single bed in the center), running his hands through his messy curls as Hannibal steps in and removes his own shoes.

“I suppose proper introductions are in order. Hannibal Lecter,” he offers, stretching out his hand amicably.

The younger man seems almost reluctant to take it for a moment, perhaps put off by this strange situation, but in the end he clasps Hannibal’s hand with one of his own, callous-rough and grip more firm, more confident than Hannibal had expected. “Will Graham,” he reciprocates, pauses and then adds, “I have whiskey.”

Hannibal can’t stop the surprised laughter that bursts forth. What an amusing man, this Will Graham. “Good fortune for the both of us--assuming your declaration was intended as an offer to share?”

The pink staining Will’s cheeks darkens, spreads down his neck and to the tips of his ears. “Yeah,” he responds gruffly, obviously embarrassed as he first glances away and then moves over to his duffel bag to retrieve it. 

Hannibal ventures to the restroom to procure the two glasses sitting next to the sink. Will has planted himself in the only other chair in the room, staring intently at the label on the plastic bottle in his hands. Hannibal perches on the corner of the bed closest to him, holding out a glass in each hand for Will to fill. Uncertain silence fills the room as they each take a sip of the amber liquid--not nearly on par with what Hannibal would normally consume, but effective all the same.

“This is awkward,” Will states plainly, and Hannibal can’t help but smile into his glass.

“It’s as awkward as we allow it to be,” he returns lightly. “Shall we get to know one another or do you prefer that we remain in silence and pretend as if the other doesn’t exist?”

Will takes another generous sip of whiskey. “I don’t really think that second option is all too viable.”

“Nor do I,” Hannibal replies, and he doesn’t _mean_ for it to rumble out as a purr, truly he doesn’t, but for some reason he is finding it more and more difficult to pull his gaze from the man in front of him; the man that, he is also coming to realize, is really quite a beautiful specimen. “Well, we have one thing in common, at least,” he shifts, attempting to keep the atmosphere light. “The both of us turned up tardy for our flight. Shall we compare notes as to what kept us?”

His companion shoots him a quizzical look before redirecting his gaze to his sock-clad feet. “Some idiot on my flight from Seattle caused a ruckus and had to be removed from the plane. We sat on the tarmac for forty-five minutes for that one. _Then_ we were informed that our pilot reached his hourly limit and was no longer available to make the trip, so we had to de-board and then _re_ board when they found another pilot two hours later. By the time we touched down in Minneapolis the flight to Dulles had already been boarding. I was hoping I could still make it, but…” he ends his tale of woe with a shrug, tipping back the last of the liquid in his glass and reaching immediately for the bottle at his feet to refill it.

“I understand how one would be egregiously frustrated by that situation,” Hannibal nods. “I, myself, had happened to arrive from my previous flight on schedule with a two hour layover. I thought to dwindle away the time with a light supper and a glass of wine at one of the restaurants… During the course of my meal there was a medical emergency that drew my assistance--a young lady dining with her parents began to have a grand mal seizure. She was previously thought to be healthy, no prior diagnosis of epilepsy or history of seizures, so her parents were quite distraught and unsure of how to handle the situation. As I had been present for the episode I waited with them for the paramedics to arrive--it is important for them to know how long the patient was seizing, their pulse rate and other various observations that I wouldn’t expect her parents to remember.”

He tips the remainder of the liquid in his glass and then turns his gaze back to Will, who has raised those blue eyes to gape at him openly. “Christ. Well your excuse is better than mine. You’re a doctor, then?” he asks, automatically reaching for the bottle to refill the empty glass in Hannibal’s grasp.

“Former surgeon,” Hannibal corrects. “Currently a psychiatrist,” the hand tipping the bottle over his glass jerks, slopping a few drops over the edge of the glass as it finishes its pour. Hannibal catches the liquid before it can drip down onto his trousers with his other thumb and swipes it up the length of the glass before sucking it into his mouth. He holds back his smirk as Will’s gaze lands on his mouth while his hands blindly attempt to match the cap to its bottle and miss multiple times.

Thankfully, the cap has been screwed on tightly before the room phone rings shrilly, causing the man before him to jerk in surprise once more. He sets his drink on the desk next to him and then makes his way to the nightstand that houses the telephone. “Hello?” he answers warily. “Oh. Uh...okay. Yeah, no that’s...oh--okay. Thanks.” Will replaces the receiver and Hannibal watches, curious, as his shoulders begin to shake. The movement quickly grows more abrupt and then a great snort of laughter bursts forth from Will’s nose, followed by the gasping inhale for breath between peals of laughter. “They don’t...they don’t--theydon’thaveanymorerollaways!” the information bursts forth with one more uncontrolled round of giggles. “Oh, fuck,” he wipes at the moisture brimming from his eyes as he turns back toward Hannibal. “Sorry,” he wheezes as he begins to regain control over himself. “Sorry it’s just...Christ, I feel like I’m in some shitty rom-com. This whole situation is just absurd.”

“It is certainly unprecedented,” Hannibal agrees, studying the man gasping for air. Curiously, he feels something like fondness swell in his chest; what an intriguing and entirely unpredictable creature he has met. “I understand the logic: two strangers thrust together in a series of increasingly unlikely and providential circumstances; the spark of mutual attraction kindled and nurtured until it blazes to life and the two realize they have fallen hopelessly in love... Though I wonder if romantic comedy is the proper genre with which to label it. I think it might be a bit more akin to a drama, what with your already being involved with someone. That certainly adds a level of suspense not common to romantic comedies.”

Will is staring at him as he dissects the situation, mouth gaping open and closed much like a fish. “With me...what? Involved? Wha?”

Despite his inability to form a proper inquiry, Hannibal latches on to the spirit of the question Will is attempting to impart. “Forgive the intrusion, I did overhear you on your call earlier. It sounded as though your partner--Jack, was it?--was less than pleased with your situa--” Hannibal’s explanation is drowned out by another great snort of laughter from Will.

“ _Jack?_ Jack...no, Jack is not my partner. He’s my...boss,” he hesitates and then seems to settle on the label glumly, striding back over to the desk to take another sip of whiskey. He doesn’t take his seat again, instead opting to stand and glare at the drink in his hand while he seems to deliberate on how much information to release. “I consult on cases for the FBI,” he says at last, deciding to share his story. “Jack was pissed that the flight that I missed was paid for by the Bureau. He was...less than thrilled at the prospect of paying for another, let _alone_ paying for a room for the night. Which, by the way, they've decided to comp due to the mix-up.”

Hannibal’s brain is still caught on the ‘FBI’ portion of his explanation. Unpredictable indeed.

Will knocks his drink back and abandons the empty glass on the desk. His empty hands sway at his side for a moment before getting tucked firmly into the pockets of his jeans. “If you think you can stand not having the comforter for the night I can rustle up a makeshift bed on the floor--”

“The bed is big enough for two,” Hannibal declines, feels a pleasant pulse of heat in his gut as the pulse point on Will’s neck jumps at the suggestion. The younger man is back to staring at his feet, shuffling uncertain on the beige carpet beneath them. The heat thrums once more when the shuffling ceases in a position that has drawn his body closer to Hannibal.

“You said something before,” Will begins softly, that lovely pink returning to his cheeks and ears. “About a mutual attraction?”

Hannibal drains the last of his glass, reaching over to deposit it on the desk next to Will’s. As he moves to settle back onto his corner of the mattress, he lets his hands catch at Will’s hips to gently guide him closer. Will moves with him, pliant, until he is standing between Hannibal’s thighs. His gaze is set stubbornly on the hands on his hips, the legs he’s settled between, before finally drifting up to Hannibal’s face.

“Forgive me for being forward,” he entreats, tugging at the man, though he can’t possibly get any closer in this position. Will catches on and moves the remaining distance on his own, lifting his knees to climb onto the bed and settle over Hannibal’s lap. He doesn’t sink into him, just kneels over his thighs, hands falling lightly to Hannibal’s shoulders to help retain balance. “This is just as unprecedented for me as our absurd situation,” he admits.

“Me too,” Will replies on a shaky breath, hot and whiskey-scented as it passes over Hannibal’s face. “I don’t...do this. Not...I mean I don’t even really do _relationships..._ but especially not this.” He hesitates for a moment, body stiff before he seems to make a decision and relaxes against Hannibal, settles his weight down onto his lap.

Will is warm and soft (save for one spot in Hannibal’s lap that is growing harder by the second), the weight of him in his lap feels sturdy and _right._ “You don’t believe in relationships?” he asks, hands finally disobeying his control to reach up and tangle into curls that are even softer than they appear. Will lets out a soft huff of laughter tinged with bitterness; Hannibal likes the way movement shifts Will against him, even if he’s not fond of the emotion.

“Too broken to date,” he corrects, though the statement is punctuated with an experimental shift of his hips that has them pressing together more fully. When their breath catches at the sensation it seems to happen in unison. “People...even people that have been in relationships for _decades,_ they want to hide, even if it’s just the smallest part of them. Wives secretly shave their lips and guys will never admit that they pick their nose or pee in the shower… I don’t--I _can’t_ \--afford the opportunity to hide. No one wants someone that sees too much of them all the time.”

One of Hannibal’s hands tightens in Will’s hair, the other drifting down to run across his stubbled jaw, beckons it closer. It’s curious...he’d have expected the scruff on Will’s face to feel as rough as the man himself, but it’s actually quite soft. To his delight, Will follows his guidance, tipping their faces closer together. “Now that I sincerely doubt,” Hannibal informs him, tipping his own head up so that their lips can finally meet.

Will gasps against his mouth, taking in a shuddering breath before the barest whimper of a moan falls from his lips and he presses closer. Hannibal drinks it up, moves his hands to wrap around his body and haul him closer still, hips tilting up to grind into the hard warmth of the young man in his lap. His hands are at the bottom of the hideous flannel shirt before he even realizes they’ve moved, slinking up under, seeking out flesh. Will is firm beneath his clothing, abs hard and skin soft and peppered with only a fine trail of downy hair from his chest to his groin. Hannibal reaches higher and Will’s arms move above him instinctively as Hannibal strips both flannel and undershirt off him in one go.

As soon as his arms are free from the tangle of clothing his hands are back down on Hannibal, pushing the jacket off his shoulders and tugging at the silk tie around his neck. “You wear a lot of clothes,” Will murmurs against his mouth and Hannibal couldn’t agree more, shrugging out of his jacket hurriedly and moving to work at his waistcoat as Will finally loosens the tie enough to slip off over his head. Will moans as his shirt finally parts to reveal skin, hands surging forth to stroke and grasp at the thick rug of hair that covers Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal sees to the final few buttons, shrugs out of that as well, and then wraps his arms around Will, standing suddenly; the man in his lap can do little more than yelp with surprise and wrap himself around Hannibal’s trunk. He swipes the clothing that litters the bed to the floor and then hauls Will forward, dropping him until he’s properly positioned in the center of the bed.

He takes a moment to dispatch of his trousers, Will catching on quickly and wiggling out of his jeans as well, and he observes the beautiful young man laid out before him. That enticing flush has spread with their affections, blossoming all the way down onto his smooth, pale chest, which heaves for breath as he gapes helplessly up at Hannibal. He’s pleased to see that the puppy-dog innocence has fled from those cerulean eyes, replaced with a fiery hunger. Will grows bold under Hannibal’s observation, locking eyes with him in a hard stare and bringing one hand down to rub salaciously at the erection that strains against his boxers.

“Wicked thing,” Hannibal murmurs, stripping out of his briefs as well so that his own erection stands unabashedly free; Will moans at the sight.

“I suppose it would be entirely reckless for you to fuck me bare,” he pants, shimmying out of his boxers and kicking them away from the bed. His hand wraps around his flushed cock and gives it a stroke.

“Generally speaking, yes,” he agrees. “As a doctor I wouldn’t advise it.”

“But…” Will prompts, wetting his lips as Hannibal steps closer to the bed.

“But,” Hannibal agrees, climbing onto the mattress and moving to settle over Will. Their cocks brush together and a shudder seems to run through them as though they were one person. He leans down to brush kisses along Will’s neck, jaw, rests against his plush lips. “I _have_ been known to be reckless, from time to time.”

“I’m clean,” Will gasps, jerks his hips up to grind against Hannibal’s once more. His pink tongue darts out to swipe across Hannibal’s mouth. “I promise, I am.”

“I have recently tested negative for everything as well,” Hannibal assures him. It’s more than reckless, really. It’s impulsive and stupid--he knows that. He also knows that there is no conceivable way he can stay in this room until morning and not bury himself within the beautiful man beneath him. Short of one of them locking themselves in the bathroom, that is. Hannibal presses another kiss to Will’s lips and then raises two fingers to them.

The wet heat of Will’s mouth envelopes them immediately and Hannibal can only think that he’s getting a slight preview as to what awaits his achingly hard cock. Lack of regularity aside, it is clear that Will has done this before; he conjures saliva, lavishes it along Hannibal’s digits with purposeful swipes of his tongue. His lips are pinker than ever when Hannibal’s fingers leave them, wet and shining and just _begging_ to be kissed.

So Hannibal does, leaning down to lick into Will’s mouth as his hand drops between them. Will’s legs fall open in invitation, his hips shifting upwards to make room and when Hannibal presses into him with both fingers, Will wails a wanton moan into the cavern of Hannibal’s mouth before jerking his hips forward to usher him deeper.

Will gives as good as he gets, pushing forward as Hannibal retreats, sucking on Hannibal’s tongue when his fingers bend and stroke inside him. When Hannibal spreads his fingers wide and then quickly inserts a third, Will lets out a delicious cry and bites Hannibal’s bottom lip so hard it bleeds. Hannibal would have appreciated this under normal circumstances, but then Will punctuates the act by taking the wounded flesh into his mouth and sucking hard until Hannibal can smell the flood of copper that meets Will’s tongue and when the young man moans and writhes once more, Hannibal is completely lost. 

He withdraws his fingers, pulls back from Will’s seeking mouth long enough to spit crudely into his hand (he can’t help but notice the slight tinge of pink in his saliva) and his cock throbs all the more insistently as he gives it a few perfunctory strokes to moisten the way before settling between Will’s legs once more. Ever the gentleman, Hannibal pauses briefly, intent in confirming that Will is sure this is how he wants to proceed--

“Fuck me,” Will demands with a moan as his body writhes beneath him again, and Hannibal is helpless but to obey him.

He presses forward, his cockhead prodding insistently at Will’s entrance until it finally yields to him and he begins to slip inside. 

“Oh, _God,_ yes--more--” Will bites out, shifts his hips up to close the distance between them. Hannibal groans and presses forward until their pelvises meet, until he’s buried as deeply within Will as he can get. “Fuck... _Hannibal.”_

And with this man that is a perfect stranger (in more than the usual sense) gasping his name, the remains of Hannibal’s tattered control disintegrate entirely. He reaches down to hook his arms beneath Will’s knees, hauling his legs up to drape over his shoulders, and then he fucks into him with abandon. Will’s breathy gasps and squeaked moans only incense him further, until he is dropping down to cover that delicious mouth with his own.

Will’s legs drop down to wrap around Hannibal’s waist with the new position, his cries slipping right down Hannibal’s throat as he devours him as thoroughly as possible. His hands move from clenching fists into the duvet to digging claws into Hannibal’s back. When Hannibal grasps Will’s hips and tilt them just a bit higher so that he can strike against his prostate with every thrust, Will throws his head back with a keening wail, pleas falling almost senselessly from his lips as Hannibal fucks into him and then drops his attentions to the unforgivably unblemished column of Will’s neck.

He’s just about to have mercy on the poor boy and move a hand to tend to his neglected cock when he sucks a livid mark against the pulse point at base of Will’s throat and the young man shudders and stiffens and comes untouched between them. 

“I can’t--oh, God--oh fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” he whines and Hannibal continues to thrust into him as Will’s release paints jerkily across his belly and chest. The clenching heat is finally too much for Hannibal to resist and he plants himself deep one more time before his own release spills forth.

They stay joined that way for what seems like several minutes, their heaving breaths the only thing that breaks the silence. Finally, Hannibal pulls his softened cock from the welcome confines of Will’s body, breath catching once more as his seed spills out after him. Will whimpers at the loss, the rest of his body arching up to regain proximity; his lips pout forward, seeking a kiss, and Hannibal can’t help but comply. 

He rolls to the side, then, hands catching around Will’s body to beckon him to follow and he does, shifting boneless, pliant, and settling against the curve of Hannibal’s body without hesitation. They lay like that for awhile, first blinking lazily at each other and then pressing forward to share equally lazy kisses. 

They don’t speak--don’t feel the need to--only continue on in that fashion until sleep takes them, lights still on, still laying atop the covers.

\---

At some point in the night Hannibal wakes and gingerly peels himself from Will’s embrace to go relieve his bladder. He shuts off the lights and carefully peels the covers out from under Will, covering them both when he slides back into bed.

They both wake sometime in the early morning, long enough after dawn for some light to be spilling through the curtains they left open but not late enough for it to fill the room completely. They blink sleepily at each other and share a soft smile, finding quickly enough that the both of them are sporting decent morning erections. Lazy morning kisses morph into lazily rocking against each other, which degrades into a whirlwind of debauchery, much the same as the evening before.

Neither of them make it for the 10:15 flight.


	2. Road Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Have a silly little one-shot based on this ridiculous bed-sharing prompt!  
> Also me: Actually, I've thought of an interesting second part to this story!
> 
> Me: I swear to God, I am so done with multi-chapter WIP after I finish Vita!  
> Also me: _uploads Layover chapter 2 of ?_

“You work for the FBI?” Hannibal asks him.

As they have _just_ finished a vigorous round of morning sex and still lay panting and tangled together, the question seems to come straight out of left field. “Uh, yeah,” Will answers, twists his head to examine the stranger laying next to him. “Why?”

“May I make the assumption, then, that DC was your final destination?”

Will props himself up on his forearm, frowning down at the curious man. “Flight-wise, yes. I live about forty minutes out in Virginia.”

Hannibal gives a soft hum at that, eyes glinting a warm amber color where the sunlight falls over his face. He reaches up to twist a few fingers idly through Will’s curls. Will keeps his gaze focused on the gorgeous man beneath him, though his instinct is for his eyes to slide shut at the sensation. He has found, in his twelve hours of getting to know Hannibal _very_ well, that he is quite an affectionate person. Will’s eyes trail over his sculpted cheekbones, drift down to the fine layer of morning stubble that dusts his jaw. He has the intense urge to bend down and lick across it, or nuzzle against him so it brushes over the tender flesh of his neck; it looks rugged and rough and absolutely delicious.

“I, myself, am located in Baltimore,” Hannibal supplies after a moment. “I was just considering the option of renting a car, since we both seem to be exceedingly dreadful at keeping to the airline’s schedule. As the final destinations are near enough to each other...would you like to take the trip with me?”

Will blinks down at him dumbly for a moment as he processes the request. His focus may or may not have been captured by how those kissable lips shaped and released words, rather than what they were actually saying. “You...want to take a road trip,” he states slowly, “With _me_?” he questions. It's both an oddly alluring and terribly short-sighted notion. Surely this exquisitely refined man has caught on to the fact that Will is nothing at all like him, however well they may mesh in the bedroom. He wagers two, maybe three hours _tops_ before Will’s snarky attitude would get him left on the side of the road. “You realize that’s like a twelve hour drive.”

“Closer to sixteen, actually,” Hannibal corrects; the fingers in his hair give a light tug until Will settles down onto the bed once more. “We needn’t make the entire trip in one go, if you’d prefer. We could stop somewhere for the evening. Chicago, perhaps, or a bit farther east.”

Will pulls away once again to sit up fully this time, crossing his legs beneath him. “You’re serious about this,” he confirms flatly when Hannibal fails to burst into laughter at his very clever joke. The strange man merely tips a pale eyebrow in response, sharp eyes studying him shrewdly as he awaits Will’s answer. “Uh...o-okay. Sure, I guess. We, uh, we should probably get going then.”

The man spread out below him finally moves then, blank expression shifting into one that looks smugly pleased as he sits up and climbs off of the bed. He reaches a hand out to card through Will’s curls once more, closing his fist and giving a gentle entreating tug in his direction. “First, I think, a shower.”

\---

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Will gasps, though his utterance is nearly drowned out by the water cascading around them. He falls back against the wall, one hand groping blindly for the support bar in an attempt to keep himself upright; his other hand moves instinctively to fist into Hannibal’s sopping wet strands, though he makes no move to direct the man’s movements.

Hannibal is having no trouble enthusiastically swallowing Will down on his own.

His head tilts back to rest against the cool tile, his face just out of the spray of water that jets from the showerhead to soak his front (and Hannibal’s head, where he’s connected to Will’s groin via his mouth and throat). 

The shower had started innocently enough, if not a bit sensually, as he and Hannibal took turns sudsing up each other’s locks and then trailed soapy hands along the firm planes of each other’s bodies. Hannibal had paid special attention to Will’s ass, slowly kneading the flesh before dipping between to the intimate place that Hannibal had filled with his release twice over. Will had blushed when a finger had strayed inside tenderly to further cleanse him--no other lover had ever done that for him before (not that Will had ever been inclined to let them).

By the time they were clean, Will was hard again, and Hannibal had crowded him against the wall and lapped at the water trailing down his throat and murmured, “I want to taste you,” and for some reason it hadn’t occurred to Will to anticipate the action that had followed that declaration--namely, Hannibal dropping to his knees right there in the shower stall and sucking him down like Will’s cock was a source of oxygen.

“Oh fuck, baby, that’s...nggh,” Will loses all grasp on the English language as his cock meets the back of Hannibal’s throat and one hand comes up to fondle at his balls, hanging heavy between his legs. They seize up now, draw closer to his body as a shudder of pleasure ripples from Will’s core to the tips of his toes, drawn closer and closer to orgasm with every bob of Hannibal’s head, his cheeks hollowed with his suction as he pulls away before his hot, clever tongue runs the length of him once more.

When Will explodes down Hannibal’s throat he does so with a wordless cry, his fingers turning to claws in the man’s wet hair. Hannibal sucks every drop of him down greedily, pulls away with a pleased smile before leaning forward and placing a tender kiss to the sharp curve of one of his hip bones. His legs are still shaking with his orgasm when Hannibal stands, his hand clenched in a knuckle-white grip around the safety bar bolted to the wall. He whimpers when Hannibal licks into his mouth and he can taste his release on the man’s tongue.

“Jesus, you...you’re kind of insatiable, aren’t you?” Will pants, and his already pounding heart picks up speed as Hannibal’s rumbling chuckle washes over him. At this rate he’s liable to have a heart attack. 

Hannibal reaches passed him to shut off the cooling water. “Not usually,” he admits, brushing Will’s dripping hair out of his face. “Perhaps it’s this city,” his eyes flash with an amusement that’s almost playful, the corner of his mouth ticking up slightly in the suggestion of a smirk. “I find that I have grown impulsive since I landed here.”

Will stares after him as he turns and steps out of the shower, snapping back to himself only when he realizes that the other man is holding out a towel for him. When he steps back into the bedroom, Hannibal is holding up his suit trousers, eyeing them with a rather despondent expression. He holds back a smirk as he moves over to where his own jeans lay crumpled in the corner, pulling them on without hesitation as Hannibal lays the pants out on the bed and attempts to smooth out the wrinkles with his hands. When he gives up on that and holds up his jacket to find it in a similar state, he gives a soft ‘tsk’ of irritation.

“Your impulsiveness is wreaking havoc on your wardrobe,” Will laments wryly, digging into his duffel bag to pull out a t-shirt that he’s _fairly_ certain is clean. He wasn’t wearing it yesterday, at least, though he can’t recall if he had worn it in Seattle or not. He twists his body away from the other man and gives it a surreptitious sniff. It doesn’t smell too offensive, more like laundry detergent than sweat, at least, so he pulls it on. 

“Would that I had something else to wear,” Hannibal sighs, almost to himself. “I shall feel quite like a fool walking into the car rental building like this,” he adds, quite seriously. Will turns to see that the doctor has somehow already donned the wrinkle-laden suit--a feat in and of itself, seeing as it took the two of them several minutes of collaboration to get him out of it the night before--and is looking himself over with a critical eye in the full length mirror attached to the wall.

It occurs to him to assure Hannibal that it’s not as bad as he thinks, glances down to his own clothing. Somehow he doesn’t think his assurances will go very far with a man like Hannibal. The word ‘fussy’ flits through his mind and he feels his lips attempting to twist into a smirk again, bites the inside of his cheek to fight it off. He’s certain his amusement at Hannibal’s displeasure will be appreciated even less.

The building for car rentals is right next to the hotel and Will stands off to the side by the exit as Hannibal makes arrangements with an agent at the desk. He pulls out his phone and opens his contacts, scrolling down to Jack’s name. He pauses with his thumb over the call button, knowing exactly how that conversation is going to go. After debating for a full minute, Will scrolls back up in the list and dials Bev instead.

“Well if it isn’t Mr. Tardy himself,” her wry voice greets him. Will groans.

“You know about that already?”

“ _Everyone_ knows about that already. Jack’s had a case for you since yesterday morning that he thinks is the Ripper. He was expecting you back last night. He wasn’t happy to have to wait and he’s made damn sure the rest of us are aware of it. And don’t worry, I already gave the mutts breakfast.”

Will freezes in the action of scuffing the ground with the toe of his shoe. “That _Jack_ thinks is the Ripper?” he gives Hannibal a nod as he approaches with a set of car keys, mouthing ‘one minute’ with an apologetic glance. “But you don’t think that.”

“There were organs missing, but they weren’t removed with the precision we’ve come to expect from the Ripper. And the display…”

Will waits as she trails off and drops the phone away from her mouth to snap something at someone that sounds suspiciously like Zeller. “Yes?”

“Well, there was none. But, you know Jack,” Bev sighs. “Organs go missing…”

Will nods, though Bev certainly can’t see the action 1,000 miles away. “He sees the Ripper in every shadow, I know. Listen, I was hoping--”

“Wait a second,” Bev interrupts him. “I thought your new flight was at ten?” Will stands with his phone to his ear, mouth open and poised to speak, though he hasn’t yet thought of the best words to use. “Oh, Will, _no,"_ she groans. “Don’t, please, don’t make me tell Jack.”

“I’ll tell Jack,” he assures her. “I just need you to see to the dogs a few more times...I’ll probably be home late tomorrow evening.”

“ _Tomorr--Will._ Jack is going to go apeshit.”

“Jack and his pseudo-Ripper can wait,” Will snaps back, immediately regrets it; Bev doesn’t deserve his surliness, especially not since she’s spent hours of her time over the last several days driving out to Wolf Trap for his pack.

Before he can apologize, she shoots back with her own brand of attitude. “You realize _we’re_ the ones that have to deal with him on this end, right? What the hell happened this time?!”

Will can feel a set of eyes on him and glances up. Hannibal is watching him, though Will doesn’t sense any impatience from the man. More...a curious appraisal; he suddenly feels flayed open, exposed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he answers honestly. “Don’t worry about Jack. Just...feed the dogs?”

“Of course,” she agrees. “See you tomorrow, Graham.”

“Thanks, Bev,” he makes sure the call disconnects and then shoves the phone into his pocket, turning back to Hannibal with a sheepish grin. “Work. Mostly. My, uh,” using the term ‘friend’ to describe Beverly Katz feels odd, no matter how friendly they are with each other. “My coworker has been feeding my dogs while I’ve been away.”

Hannibal’s lips do that thing where they twitch into a semblance of a smile. It’s odd--Will isn’t sure if he’s ever seen the man show a single, uncontrolled emotion outside of their romps in the sheets (and that one very notable performance in the shower). Even when he had missed his flight, when they were dealing with the colossal fuck-up at the hotel, he remained still and blank, poised to twist his lips and raise his eyebrows and tilt his head, but nothing beyond that. Seeing him then and now, Will finds it quite the victory to experience the stoic man’s laughter in the bedroom, to see hunger in his eyes and feel his bruising grip as direct evidence of his passion.

He’s a little disappointed that the curtain has been raised, can only hope that it falls once more when it’s just the two of them in the car...for sixteen hours. Christ, he forgot for a moment that he’s about to embark on a journey with a relative stranger in the confines of a rented car for the better part of two days (he’s not so much dreading the part where they get back into a bedroom--in fact, is quite pleased that Hannibal was the one to suggest the break in travel so he himself didn’t appear too thirsty for it).

“How considerate,” Hannibal replies, and Will is slightly relieved that he doesn’t ask any follow up questions about the fact that he has dogs because he’s not sure he’s prepared to deal with the inevitable look of confusion and/or horror that he generally receives when he announces to new acquaintances that he owns seven dogs. People don’t seem to understand the draw for some reason. “We’re all set, if you’re ready.”

Will nods and follows him out into the carpark, his steps faltering slightly when he sees Hannibal striding confidently toward a sleek and very sexy black Maserati. Will doesn’t normally put much stock in the vehicles people drive (opting for a rusted-out, dog hair infested Volvo himself), but he’s surprised to find that his mouth goes dry as Hannibal presses a button on the keyfob to unlock the car with a soft chirp and then proceeds to pull open the driver’s side door and fold himself down into the seat as though he belongs there entirely. When Hannibal notices that his passenger has not joined him, he leans over the center console and pops it open for him.

“Going my way?” he asks Will’s frozen form, almost cheekily, and Will has to blink several times and clear his throat before his brain will send the signal to _take a damn step_ to his legs.

He drops down into the passenger seat, pulling the door closed behind him and latches his seat belt and is then very prudent to keep his hands on his legs and not touch _anything._ One scratch on the paint, one scuff to the leather interior, could cost _hundreds._

“I only had a light supper myself, last night,” Hannibal tells him as he puts the car into reverse and glides out of the parking spot with barely a glance behind him, “And we were too busy to catch breakfast at the hotel…” Will feels his cheeks flame at the reminder while something far less innocent twists low in his belly at the memory. “Perhaps we should start this journey with a nice lunch?” he’s already pulling away from the airport and merging onto a highway before Will can truly state his opinion. It seems as though the man already knows where he is going; Will can only grunt his consent and go along for the ride.

He takes them to a place dubbed The Lexington, mentioning that he had been told about the spot by a patient that used to live in Minnesota. Hannibal insists from the get-go that the meal is on him but, even so, Will is slightly appalled to find himself ordering a hamburger that costs fifteen dollars. It looks like a plain old burger to him, though he keeps this thought to himself and wonders idly at how much Hannibal’s whitefish salad went for. It’s one of the best meals he’s had in awhile, at least, so maybe the place has earned the right to charge fifteen bucks for a burger (even though at home he could make half a dozen with that budget).

Their lunch had been pleasant, the food filling Will with a sleepy peace as they climb back into the car. During their meal, they had spoken of little else beyond the ambiance of the restaurant and the quality of the food; the conversation had been easy, banal, so Will is completely caught off-guard when, after less than an hour on the road, Hannibal throws out:

“Last night I noticed a physical reaction you had to my having told you that I am a psychiatrist, Will. You seemed quite surprised--nervous, even. Might I inquire as to why that was?”

Will holds in his groan of frustration--barely--his head tipping back to press against the headrest behind him as he takes a slow, deep breath. “I’m...generally not fond of psychiatrists,” he admits, stating the fact as nicely as he can. In truth, he’s only ever met one therapist that he didn’t immediately dislike. Alana’s face floats into his mind before he can think to keep it out and he finds himself wondering if, when he gets back and Alana wants to talk about the inevitable effect the case has had on him (because they always do) if he’ll tell her that he engaged in anonymous, unprotected and incredibly gratifying sex. Perhaps that will be more than enough for her to unwind and she won’t want to talk about the case at all.

“Before you ask why that is,” he continues, “Do note that we are about forty minutes in to a sixteen hour car ride and you’ve already begun to psychoanalyze me.” 

His hostility only garners him a soft huff of breath and a curling along the edges of Hannibal’s lips. “It was not my intention to start in on you so abruptly,” Hannibal replies, and Will thinks it might be as close to an apology as he’s going to get. “Observing is what I do; I can’t turn mine off any more than you can turn yours off.”

“You don’t know what I observe,” Will bites back, perhaps a bit more harshly than necessary.

“I can infer, based on the knowledge of your working for the FBI, for Jack Crawford specifically--” his gaze darts over to meet Will’s briefly when his head whips around in shock; Will drops his eyes to frown at the center console, “I had suspected before and grew confidant in my assessment when I heard you talking to Miss Katz about the Chesapeake Ripper. I’ve helped Agent Crawford out with a profile a time or two myself. And then there is the matter of your avoidance of eye contact. You so rarely meet and hold my gaze outside of our sexual encounters, nor anyone else’s, I’ve noticed. You told me you weren’t suited for relationships because you see too much of people. Tell me, does it only happen when you meet someone’s eyes?”

Will turns back to stare at the road in front of them, forces his tensed body to relax and melt against his seat with a sigh. “I always see things,” he says softly, “I always notice; body stance is usually enough of an indicator...eyes tell the most. Too much.”

“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind,” Hannibal muses, “Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams.”

Will can’t even begin to contain the snort that rips out of him “You’re making quite a lot of assumptions about my ‘values and decency’--namely that I have them.”

That earns another glance, Will can see in his peripheral vision, but he keeps his gaze planted firmly on the white dashes painted on the road that disappear beneath them in a blur. “I don’t believe you’re an _entirely_ amoral creature, or you wouldn’t use your gift to catch killers.”

“Again, you assume that I do what I do for the sole reason that society as a whole benefits from the outcome. What do you think _I_ gain from it, Dr. Lecter?” he drawls the name sarcastically, instinctively attempting to needle the man attempting to invade his mind. He finds quickly that he doesn’t mind the way the title falls off of his tongue--in fact, it sounds just as good as the man’s given name does when he’s moaning it in ecstasy.

There’s silence between them for a moment, though not nearly as tense as Will might have expected, and then Hannibal concedes, “I admit that I can conceive no plausible explanations. Perhaps you should just tell me.”

Will chuckles and then sighs, suddenly wishing that he had a place to look that wasn’t out the window or his own lap. “Therein lies the rub with you psychiatrists. Because if I told you the honest-to-God truth about why I do what I do…” he snorts again, shaking his head. “You’d be just as likely to shoot back with ‘and how does that make you feel?’ as you would be to kick me out of this car and leave me in the dust.”

Silence reigns for another minute and then Hannibal gives a soft hum. “And how does that make you feel?”

Despite himself, Will laughs.

\---

Will shuts down any further line of communication not long afterwards by taking to experimenting with the radio controls on the dashboard. He tunes into a Classic Rock station for about five minutes before the man next to him begins sending him politely silent but entreating glances from the corner of his eye. After the third song with a three minute guitar riff, Will finally takes pity and fiddles with the stations once more.

He settles on a Country station this time and somehow feels instantly more relaxed for it. He slouches back in his seat, letting his head tip to the side to rest against the cool glass of the window and closes his eyes. With the light of the sun warming his face and arm and some unknown country singer thrumming softly through the speakers, Will is nearly transported back to his childhood. All it would take would be the clinging scent of fish and grease and a few more bumps and groans from the patched-together F100 and Will might have thought that he’d stepped back in time. The silence in the driver’s seat is the most disparate sensation; if the radio was on, Bill Graham was usually humming or singing along--whether he knew the songs or not.

Will can almost hear the low baritone rumble along with Hank Williams as they sang about loneliness, his father’s duet mostly in tune but just slightly off pace; he always did drawl a bit slower than the singers, in a lazy sort of way. 

“Gonna catch a big one today, Willy?” his father would ask as they’d pull up to the boatyard. “Go on and get us some supper, if you don’t wanna help your old man with the motors, yeah?”

That was the routine, Will fishing every chance he could get while his father repaired whatever needed repairing. As he grew older he would occasionally sit with his father in lieu of fishing, handing the man tools, learning each part of the motor and how they fit together. 

“Everything’s got a place, in this motor and in this world,” his father explained. “I’ve found mine--might not seem that way, with always havin’ to chase down the work the way I do, but it’s for me. You got a place too, kiddo. You make sure to hold on tight when you find it, ‘K, Will?”

“Will?”

Will peels his eyes open and blinks rapidly as the light invades them. He turns toward the driver’s seat and wonders how long Hannibal has been calling his name. Hannibal is sat in the driver’s seat, his belt unbuckled and keys in one hand while his other rests on the door handle

“We’ve stopped for gas. I thought you might like to take the opportunity to stretch your legs.”

Will nods, choking down the yawn threatening to push forward from his chest. “Yeah, thanks.” He takes a moment to do a full-bodied stretch when he stands and then makes his way into the gas station. 

He lingers in front of the coffee kiosk for a moment, his face contorting as the bitter scent of cheap, burnt coffee invades his nose. He opts to purchase a shot of Five Hour Energy instead. When he pulls out his phone to check the time, he’s glad that he already relieved his bladder; he’s got two missed calls from Jack as well as a text message that just reads _‘Call.’_. He doesn’t even recall putting his phone on silent, when he thinks about it.

He meets Hannibal on his way out of the station and then, when the man makes a beeline for the restrooms, Will figures he may as well get this over with. He leans against the brick wall of the building to the right of the entrance and calls Jack, who answers on the second ring. Will immediately begins to pace about in a lazy, shuffling sort of way.

“Will--”

“I know, I’m sorry, I just…” 

He just what? Just happened to meet an incredibly sexy man that spent half the night and most of the morning fucking him into the mattress? Just couldn’t resist the opportunity to keep himself near this stranger by any means necessary, even if it means a sixteen-hour drive rather than a three-hour flight?

“I just need some time. I’m driving back. I’m in--” he freezes, mentally cursing himself and glancing around desperately for any indication as to his location.

“Mauston,” a low voice breathes over his shoulder, and with the sound Will finds the tension melting from his stiff back.

“Mauston,” he finishes, though he doesn’t have even a vague understanding of where that is. He casts an appreciative glance to Hannibal over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in town tomorrow night. You’ll be the first to know, okay?”

“What happened in Seattle, Will?”

It takes every ounce of his self-control not to sigh audibly at the inquiry. Instead, he kicks at a pebble and watches as it skits across the ground. “What always happens, Jack,” he responds smoothly, “I looked, I saw, I found. I can’t come home and jump right in again. I know--” he aborts that sentence, because if he finishes it the way he had intended, ‘ _I know you_ think _that it’s the Ripper’_ , Jack may very well have a coronary. “Bev told me what’s going on. I’ll be there soon. I just need to decompress.”

“I _will_ see you tomorrow night,” Jack states in response, and Will agrees, ends the call.

“Jack Crawford seems quite keen on pushing you to your farthest limits,” Hannibal observes as Will slips his phone into his pocket and rubs tiredly at his face. 

“He’s convinced that no one can do it like I can,” he replies, pulling the bottle of energy drink from his other pocket and peeling off the protective plastic wrap. He twists off the cap and drains it in one to stop himself from adding that Jack Crawford is very much correct in his opinion; it’s something that Will isn’t quite ready to admit out loud. He knows as soon as he does that he will lock himself into what, until now, has been a pseudo side-job. He wishes he could just go back to his classroom and forget that Jack had ever come knocking for him; he’s terrified that Jack is correct in his assessment that the classroom will be ruined for him if he sits on the sidelines and waits for more killers to crop up, more bodies to drop, more slides to add to his lectures.

He can see Hannibal’s face twist into a grimace in his peripheral vision and is surprised when the man speaks and reveals the cause, “Those concoctions are terrible for you. You shouldn’t ingest them.”

Will gives him a tight smile and drops the container and wrapper into the garbage can near the entrance before heading over to the car. “I already fell asleep on you once,” he points out. “I’d hate for you to get bored. And, if I get much more sleep now I won’t be able to when we stop for the night.”

Hannibal’s response rumbles out low and sultry as they climb into the car, “I don’t intend for you to sleep when we stop for the night.”

The connotations of that statement, combined with Hannibal’s arrogantly confident tone, send blood rushing to fill Will’s face (another area as well, distinctly further _south_ of his face). He snaps his seat belt into place and blithely stares out the window to his right so he won’t have to face Hannibal’s smug smirk. “I can drive, if you want,” he offers out of politeness, though the concept of controlling such an extravagantly expensive rental car sends his blood pumping even faster than Hannibal’s lewd remarks do. 

“It’s no trouble at all,” Hannibal insists. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he adds, though the way the afterthought is tacked on, Will is certain it’s more of a superfluous comment rather than an actual suggestion.

They make it about ten miles before Hannibal begins prodding at him once more. “My observation before was not just that,” he admits, “I know I have only been in your acquaintance for a short time, Will, but from the few phone conversations I have overheard it truly seems as though you are being stretched quite thin.” 

He really _must_ have been bored, if he’s resorting to psychoanalyzing Will again so quickly.

“I do hope that you have someone to speak with about this sort of work. It takes a toll; I know even from my limited involvement. It wouldn’t do for you to have no one to turn to.”

Will sighs, his hands finding his face once again as he rubs at his eyes. “I do, in fact. A respected psychiatrist and long-time acquaintance. She...tries to keep me grounded.”

“Tries?” Christ Almighty, this man doesn’t let _anything_ slip passed him.

“I’ll be honest,” Will admits with a dark chuckle, “It’s close to a futile attempt even on the best of days. It helps, some, to talk to someone who knows. Knows the cases, knows what I do. But she’ll never _understand.”_ He turns away again, back toward the window to stare at the suburbs that slip by as they careen down the highway further and further out of the city. _No one can understand,_ he thinks, and he’s not even aware he’s said it out loud until Hannibal is responding to him.

“Suppose there was someone that could?”

Will scoffs at that, rubbing at his scruffy jaw. “If you’re implying that, that person is you, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Hannibal doesn’t sound at all dissuaded by Will’s attempted dissuading, nor does he sound affronted or rejected or any of the other things a normal person would be feeling if their attempts at friendship were swatted away so inelegantly.

He glances over to the driver, but the infuriating man is only gazing forward, expression relaxed and unperturbed. “Do we need to revisit the bit about you kicking me out of the car if you got a decent look inside my head?” he kicks back. “In any case, I wonder if you should really be instigating a therapy session with me after…” Will doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence. _After you met me and proceeded to fuck my brains out twenty minutes later? After you gave me the most intense orgasm of my life? After you choked down my cock in the shower and swallowed my load?_ “...everything.”

“Is this a therapy session or are we just having a conversation?” Dr. Lecter asks, and Will has to stifle a sigh.

“Yes, I think, is the answer to that,” Will drawls. “Look, it’s--all that other stuff, the physical stuff, is great. It’s fantastic. Out of this world. But I think it would be best if we let previous interactions dictate this acquaintanceship and you just...stayed out of my head. You don’t want to be in there, Doctor, trust me.” He turns back to stare out the window again, painfully aware of how edgy and brooding he sounds when he tacks on glumly, “ _I_ don’t even want to be in there.”

“Tell me about your psychiatrist,” Hannibal’s suggestion sounds suspiciously like a demand. “You mentioned you generally find them quite odious but also described her as a long-time acquaintance.”

“Yes,” Will agrees simply.

“She is one of those few that you like, then?”

“Yes,” he agrees again. “You know, we don’t _have_ to talk. It’s your turn to choose the radio station,” he reminds the beautiful, nosy man next to him. How he could hold such allure for Will mere hours before when they were naked in bed and be so damned taxing _now_ is beyond him.

Hannibal lets out a soft hum and, to Will’s unending gratitude, seizes the suggestion. He clicks the radio on and searches on the tuner until lilting and soothing piano and violins are flowing softly from the speakers. Will resists the urge to close his eyes and allow the music to overtake him; the energy drink has his body buzzing with a general restlessness but he’s still not entirely convinced that he won’t fall asleep if he stops staring at the trees that now dot the side of the highway.

“I don’t have feelings for her,” Will informs him abruptly. When the psychiatrist doesn’t respond to that, he expands with, “That isn’t why I wanted to shut down the subject.”

“Okay,” Hannibal replies simply. Just ‘okay’, spoken in such a noncommittal way that Will is suddenly certain the man is only humoring him and hiding his true deductions beneath the surface.

“We kissed. Once. Over a year ago--it was before I went back to the field and started seeing her, uh, _professionally._ It didn’t go beyond that.” Will’s leg begins to bounce restlessly.

“Ah,” Hannibal nods once.

“She’s married now,” Will explains. “To a woman. So…”

“I see.”

“Okay, _what_?!” Will barks, and Hannibal shoots him a quizzical glance before returning his attention to the road.

“I’m not sure I understand the inquiry.”

“What, what is it you’re analyzing now? Do you think I still want to sleep with her? Do you think she shouldn’t have agreed to be my therapist because I attempted to instigate a romantic relationship with her? _What?”_

“Oh,” Hannibal murmured, infuriatingly calm in the face of Will’s increasing ire. “I simply find it interesting that your therapist is Alana Bloom.”

Will was _not_ expecting _that._ “Wha...what? How--”

“I mentored Dr. Bloom while I was at John Hopkins. I know that she, too, has worked personally with Jack Crawford and was fortunate enough to meet a lovely young woman with whom she entered into marital bliss approximately half a year ago. Sadly, I was out of state for a conference at the time, or I suspect we would have met at the wedding.”

Will knows that he’s gaping at the man next to him, but he can’t seem to be able to close his mouth or keep his eyes open at any degree besides bulging. “You deduced Alana Bloom from _that?”_ he confirms. Suddenly, he’s not sure why it’s _him_ that Jack keeps bothering when there’s a perfectly sane psychiatrist that can extrapolate evidence just as well as Will can. When Hannibal only continues to drive in semi-smug silence, Will sighs. “We wouldn’t have met there, or, if you’d have tried to meet me, I’d have dodged you. I’m not so great at formal events. Or in crowds. Or out in public. I made it through the dinner and speeches and then quietly slipped out the back before the dancing began. Even the prospect of an open bar wasn’t enough to get me to put up with the dancing part.”

“I’d have liked to dance with you, I think,” Hannibal muses out loud softly, and for some strange reason completely unknown to him, Will feels himself blushing.

“I don’t know how to waltz,” Will informs him, for lack of anything better to say to that.

Hannibal lets out a soft hum. “It’s a lovely dance, elegant and timeless, to be sure, but I find that the modern slow dance would be preferable with you as my partner. More...intimate.”

Will refuses to imagine himself and Hannibal dressed to the nines, their bodies pressed together from chest to groin as Will’s arms cling around Hannibal’s neck, the other man’s broad, capable hands securely fastened to his waist, hips swaying in time with whatever melody might wrap around them.

“Still not a fan,” he croaks, and by the uptick of Hannibal’s lips that he can see from the corner of his eye, Will knows that he is coming across as less than truthful.

Hannibal, it seems, is going to allow the deterrent. “Does Alana understand what you do?” He asks. “ _Truly,_ what you do?”

Will swallows around the lump in his throat, his mouth twisting into a grimace as bile churns in his stomach, threatens to rise into his esophagus--

“She understands enough; what sort of mind state the crime scenes put me into.”

“Not entirely, though,” Hannibal argues smoothly and confidently, as though he were reading from a teleprompter and daring Will to disagree in front of their live studio audience. “She knows that you study crime scenes, extrapolate data that the investigators find and don’t find. You can empathize with the victim easily enough--though, anyone that has any modicum of self-preservation or compassion can put themselves in the same position and empathize with the victim. But you...You are something else, Will.”

Will grits his teeth and glares at the road before them. “What am I?” he asks, for lack of any better response.

“A brave soul.” Hannibal intones without hesitation, “It would take one, I think, to look at a crime scene and allow yourself to feel as the killer felt, let it consume you, if only for a little while.”

“I’m not brave,” Will argues, but the words come out on a half-hearted breath.

“Not brave,” Hannibal echoes, his voice soft, considering. “Selfish, maybe?”

He jolts at the word, head swiveling around like an owl to gape at him with eyes equally as wide. “What?”

“Do you feel selfish, Will? When you step into those dark minds just a bit too hastily, delight in the triumphs that could never be your own?”

The bile churns higher than ever, and for several seconds Will has to press his lips together and take slow, deep breaths through his nose until the threat of it rising entirely has passed. He wants to argue the fact, truly he does. Wants to insist that he isn’t anything near what Hannibal assumes him to be; he is not cold and callous, nor eager to slough off his own life like an ill-fitting skin to clamber onto a throne of blood and bone and flesh and death. He wants to tell Hannibal that he doesn’t enjoy what he does, merely tolerates it as a means to an end--the end being saving innocent lives and capturing bad people.

But that would be dishonest. And more than the fear--the certainty--that Hannibal would see right through his denials, Will simply doesn’t want to be dishonest with the man. So he says nothing, and allows Hannibal to extrapolate his guilt from the choked silence.

The silence reigns for several minutes and Will realizes that at some point in their conversation, Hannibal had turned off the radio. Will reaches over to tap the power button and then slinks back into the corner of his seat, slouching against the door and resting his forehead against the cool glass of his window. He lets the swell and decline of brass and string instruments drown out his own thoughts, as close now to facing them as he has ever been and more eager than ever to turn away. He hopes that the pointed gesture of reintroducing the radio will be an overt enough indication for Hannibal that their conversation is over.

Will isn’t sure if the doctor doesn’t take the hint or ignores it entirely--it matters little, really, for each option is equally frustrating.

“Have you ever taken a life, Will?”

The question is about as abrupt as it can be, even given their previous topic, and Will feels his brain shutdown--heartbeat falter, lungs seize--for a full five seconds all bodily functions cease as his mind struggles to comprehend the inquiry. And then it does, and rages boils through him.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem?” he snaps back. “Are you incapable of understanding that I don’t want to talk about this, or do you just not give a shit?”

Hannibal actually seems to take the question into serious consideration before he answers, which only serves to fuel Will’s ire. “I suppose I don’t give a shit,” he admits freely, and Will is so surprised by the admission and the vulgar language that he can only stare at the man beside him. “I believe I understand the way you think, Will, and I also believe that it would be beneficial for you to meet the thoughts and desires you experience--the ones that you perhaps desperately write-off as mere intrusive thoughts--head on, rather than shy away from them and pretend that everything is fine.”

Will scoffs at that, desiring and considering in equal measure telling Hannibal to just pull over and let him out or to telling him to go fuck himself and spending the rest of the car ride sulking in silence despite any future provocation. “Why don’t you just save us both some time and pointless metaphors and just tell me what, exactly, it is that you are thinking?”

“If you wish,” Hannibal agrees with a courteous nod, though his eyes are still serenely planted on the road ahead of them. “I think that you continue to do the work that you do knowing, ultimately, that it is not good for you, because there lies within you at least some small part that longs for the freedom of the killers you seek. You delight in wickedness and then berate yourself for the delight.”

Will listens to Hannibal’s deductions, allows them to churn in his mind until the words are a cacophony, echoing brazening within his skull, and then decides that whatever ridiculously exorbitant fees Hannibal probably charges for his sessions, he should increase it.

“Like I said,” he responds tiredly after a moment of tense silence, “We don’t _have_ to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> And also here! Thank you for reading, and for your delicious kudos and comments!


	3. Sleepover

Hannibal finally decides to give up on conversing--probably because after that last spoken revelation of his, he realizes that Will is about one wrong comment away from grabbing the steering wheel to veer them off the road and put himself out of his misery--and allows the radio to fill silence that grows more and more stuffy with each passing mile.

It’s just after eight o’clock when Hannibal decides to pull off the highway and drives with purpose to a very swanky-looking hotel. It’s a Four Seasons, he notes as they get closer. Will doesn’t even know what city they are in.

Hannibal must have called ahead during one of their rest stops, because he strides up to the reception counter with purpose to state his name, and is handed a keycard to their room within minutes. Will follows behind him silently, as on-edge as he has been for the last few hours of their drive, which had been filled with sparse conversation that lacked any note of substance whatsoever. 

Hannibal slips the plastic card into the lock at their room and holds the door open in offering for Will to pass through first. He does, kicking off his shoes and dropping his duffel mere feet into the room, and then he spins around to face Hannibal, slamming the man back against the door as soon as it has closed.

Their mouths meet in a desperate, biting kiss--one that Hannibal not only accepts but returns in kind with a short groan. Will slips his hands up to fist in the doctor’s soft locks to hold him in place, though Hannibal is not only _not_ fighting against him, but in fact clutching Will’s hips with a bruising grip in an attempt to pull him closer.

“You are so...fucking... _insufferable,"_ Will grounds out against Hannibal’s mouth between kisses and panting breaths.

“You are not the first to think so, I assu--” Hannibal’s breath hitches as one of Will’s legs slots between his own and grinds with purpose against the doctor’s burgeoning erection. “Assure you,” he finishes with a moan as Will’s mouth locks onto the man’s pulse point and _sucks._

He pushes Hannibal’s rumpled jacket from his shoulders as he nips at the man’s neck, growling against his skin, and his fingers turn to frantically work open the buttons of his waistcoat. “I don’t remember you being this annoying last night.” 

He’s forced to pull his mouth from Hannibal’s neck for a moment when the doctor mirrors him and peels Will’s t-shirt up and off of him. “I worked very hard to ensure you were too distracted to remember anything last night.” Hannibal admits as he begins working at Will’s belt. 

Will can’t help but laugh, pulling back before Hannibal can get his pants open, slipping his fingers into the waistband of Hannibal’s own to tug him along. He steps backwards towards the bed, meeting Hannibal’s amber gaze with a coy smile; Hannibal follows him obediently with a slightly dazed look about him that can only be likened to a cartoon character floating after the heavenly scent of fresh-baked pie. He turns them when he reaches the bed, shoving Hannibal back bodily, and the man s falls back without a fight, all the while gazing at Will as though he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

“Guess it’s my turn, then,” he muses out loud. He climbs onto the bed, one knee on either side of Hannibal’s legs, and reaches forward to undo his fly, grabs hold of the no-doubt expensive wool pants and tugs them from his hips. He stands from the bed and drops his prize to the floor, eyes roving over the bare flesh of the man laid out before him for a moment before he turns away to return to where he dropped his duffel bag.

He can feel Hannibal’s curious gaze on him as he roots through the bag, though he finds what he is searching for quickly enough. He returns to the bed and drops the tube of lubricant and small box of condoms onto the duvet next to Hannibal’s thighs. Hannibal’s gaze tracks from the new objects back to Will as he begins to slip out of his own jeans.

“I didn’t see you make this purchase,” Hannibal points out as he shifts himself up to the head of the bed.

“I know,” Will nods with a smirk, climbing onto the bed once more and following Hannibal’s path on his knees. He straddles Hannibal’s hips, leaning just close enough for their hard, erect cocks to brush together as he brings his lips down to ghost over Hannibal’s. “That was my design.” He pulls back to watch Hannibal’s face as he drops his hips to grind against the other man with intent, both of them moaning at the slide of their cocks together, slicked with their leaking arousal.

“You wish to use condoms this evening?”

Will could swear that Hannibal sounds disappointed. In truth, he doesn’t. He wants to move against and around and within Hannibal with no barriers between them. “I thought it polite to offer, at least,” he edges around the inquiry. “You being the safe, sensible doctor that you are.”

Hannibal’s eyes glint as he peers up at Will, lifts his head to brush their lips together once more. “In for a penny, in for a pound, isn’t it?” Hannibal breathes, presses closer still to capture Will’s bottom lip with his teeth for the span of a breath. “Unless you prefer otherwise.”

“ _No,”_ Will declines with a shaky breath, dropping down to erase the distance between the rest of their bodies, smashing their mouths together in another heated kiss. 

The brush of Hannibal’s rug of chest hair nearly draws a whimper from him as they melt against each other, meeting at every point possible. His hands find Hannibal’s hair, his shoulders, stroke down his hard chest and pets down the sides of his torso. Hannibal’s own hands are _everywhere;_ tangled in Will’s curls, stroking along his spine, clutching and kneading at his ass in a desperate attempt to pull their hips ever closer, increase the grind between them. The room is silent but for the wet sounds of their tongues tangling together, their panting breaths and occasional low moans.

Part of Will believes that he could be happy just like this--this slow grind of bodies and passionate melding of lips--for the entirety of the night. The other part of him is eager to pin the man down and force him apart, dive within him just as he had been attempting to do to Will’s mind all day long. With this in mind, Will finds the self-control to pull away, reaching down to retrieve the bottle of lube from the bed to pop the cap open.

Hannibal’s eyes flash when Will coats his fingers and shuffles down the man’s body to settle between his legs. He can see surprise and desire fight across his features for half a moment before his tongue darts out to wet his lips and he allows his legs to fall apart even further.

Will holds his gaze as he brings his slick fingers to Hannibal’s dry hole, stroking against his puckered rim lightly, teasing. “Have you been penetrated before, Doctor Lecter?” he asks him as he continues the lazy swirl of his fingertip.

Hannibal’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and then he gives a short nod as he lets out a shaky breath. “It has been some time,” he admits.

Will’s eyebrow hitches up at the information. “Months? Years?”

“Decades,” Hannibal corrects, the word slipping out on a groan as Will pushes his finger inside gently but relentlessly, until he can reach no farther.

Will lets out a groan of his own at the information, at the silky tight heat of Hannibal’s hole. “Fuck…” he breathes as he pulls back slowly, almost all the way out before he sinks in again. “You’ll be just like new for me, won’t you?” he prods at him with a second finger, presses that one forward as well when the only reaction he receives is a jerking of the hips and an honest-to-God _whimper._

“ _Will.”_ His name almost sounds like a curse spilling from Hannibal’s panting throat. Will strokes along the inside of Hannibal’s channel, scissors his fingers to encourage his rim to stretch.

“Has it been awhile since anyone’s offered?” Will asks him as he works his hole, pushes his fingers in and lightly strokes just shy of Hannibal’s prostate, simply because he feels like being a horrible tease. “Do they assume that you’re only interested in fucking rather than _being_ fucked?” He slips a third finger in without warning, perhaps a bit too soon, and Hannibal sputters out a foreign word that _definitely_ sounds like a curse and throws his head back into the pillow beneath him. “Or is this the first time you’ve wanted to?”

“I want you to,” Hannibal gasps, almost needy as his hips work to chase Will’s fingers each time they pull away from him. 

Will gazes down at him, the doctor so formidable and composed in his three-piece bespoke suits, a sweaty writhing mess beneath him. Beautiful. His free hand, gently petting against Hannibal’s hip as he works him open, trails down to grasp his own aching cock, stroking idly as he prepares the man beneath him. 

“I’m going to split you open,” Will declares, and though he’s certain that a bit more prep would be the polite route, Hannibal’s hitched breath and eyes slipping closed are enough to usher Will along. He removes his fingers slowly, gently, and then hastily snatches up the lube once more to slick up his throbbing cock. He repositions himself between Hannibal’s spread legs, hooks his arms under the man’s knees to hoist them up. Hannibal reaches down eagerly to guide Will’s cock to his hole, and when Will pushes forward--just as gentle but relentless as that first finger--Hannibal throws his head back again with a guttural moan and jerks his hips to urge him deeper, faster.

Hannibal is searing hot and excruciatingly tight around Will who, apart from Hannibal’s mouth on him that morning, hasn’t been buried in anything but the rough channel of his own hand for _far_ too long. He presses forward until his pelvis meets Hannibal’s ass, and then goes still, panting for breath and mentally willing himself to calm the fuck down so he doesn’t blow his load in a matter of seconds. They both share a whimper as he pulls away, and then a moan as he sinks forward again.

“Fucking beautiful,” he breathes, though he’s forced to keep his eyes squeezed shut because he’s sure if he _actually_ watches his dick disappear into the gorgeous man beneath him he truly will only last a matter of moments. “Christ, Hannibal, you--” he hauls the man’s legs up over his shoulders and bends low, pressing searing kisses up the column of Hannibal’s throat. “You feel,” he grunts against sweat-slicked skin between kisses and thrusts, “so fucking good.” 

Hannibal’s head is still tilted back, his eyes squeezed closed, his hands on either side of his head clutching at the pillow beneath him. “Does it satisfy you to invade me as I did you?” Hannibal pants as Will fucks into him. “Do you wish to take me apart, as I deconstructed you today?”

“Yes,” Will admits with a breathless chuckle against Hannibal’s ear, nips at his earlobe. “Y’know despite it being incredibly annoying that you can’t seem to turn it off, you really are a good psychiatrist.” 

Will tilts the angle of his hips just so and increases his speed and force as much as he can in this position and Hannibal chokes on a needy cry as the new angle spears his prostate with every thrust.

“Tell me, Will,” he all but begs, and Will is helpless but to comply.

He claims one of Hannibal’s hands in his, lacing their fingers together and pinning it to the bed, fists the other in Hannibal’s hair, jerking theirs mouths back together. “You were right,” he growls before he claims Hannibal’s mouth in a brief, savage kiss. The rhythm of his hips begins to falter as his orgasm starts to build, pulsing in his belly, forcing his balls to draw tight to his body. “His name was Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He was a serial killer and when he caught wind that we were onto him he killed his wife, tried to kill his daughter. I killed him first,” Will tells him. Hannibal’s legs fall from his shoulders to wrap desperately around his hips; his free hand wraps around Will’s back and sinks his fingers in as though they were claws.

“I killed him,” Will repeats, “and I liked it.”

Hannibal cries out and tenses around Will as his release spills between them from his untouched cock, coating his own belly and chest, and all the while, Will continues to thrust into him forcefully, chanting, breathless, ‘I liked it, I liked it,’, until he finally buries himself to the root and lets go, cock pulsing as he comes deep into the man beneath him.

He collapses over Hannibal with little regard for the weight he’s pressing into the man, though Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind in the least, and buries his face into the crook of Hannibal’s neck and he tries to catch his breath. The hand tangled with Will’s slowly loosens its iron grip, while his free hand pets lazily along Will’s back; his hips work in small, aborted thrusts to drag out the pleasure of the grind between their bodies before the blissful haze of orgasm leaves them and they find themselves oversensitive.

Will only realizes that he’s petting through Hannibal’s hair when Hannibal’s own hand mirrors the tender action, and he raises his head until their gazes lock, filled with a sort of kinship that Will can’t begin to put a name to.

“Is it true?” Hannibal asks after a moment on a shaky breath.

Will stares down at him, lips pressed together, and only dares to nod in confirmation. He catches a glimpse of something, an emotion he can only think to label as dark satisfaction, that sparks in Hannibal’s eyes, and Will’s once-slowing heart rate picks right back up again.

“Magnificent thing,” Hannibal murmurs, the hand in Will’s curls trailing down to stroke appreciatively across Will’s cheek. “How much of yourself will you decide to show me, I wonder?”

“You’ve seen close to all there is,” Will admits. He’s amused when he gingerly pulls his softening cock from the man beneath him and they share a soft whimper at the lost connection. “I’m curious as to how much of yourself _you_ will deign to reveal, Doctor.”

“I’ll show you everything,” he breathes, and it’s an assurance and a vow and for some reason completely unknown to him, it’s _dread_ that twists in Will’s stomach at the promise. All at once he is certain that he should not desire to see _any_ of whatever it is that this man could show him. All at once he knows that he would do anything to see it.

He pulls away completely then, rising up to sit on his knees, lingering for just a moment to watch as his seed begins to leak from Hannibal’s hole with satisfaction before he climbs off of the bed entirely. Hannibal doesn’t protest, merely waits patiently for Will to return from retrieving a damp washcloth from the bathroom. It’s the least he can do, he figures, since Hannibal had extended the same courtesy to him the previous evening. He crawls to hover between Hannibal’s thighs once more, stroking at his hip and he gently dabs at the mess he left between the man’s legs. When he gets that area as well as he can, he turns the cloth over to the fresh side and wipes at the mess Hannibal has made of his chest and stomach.

Hannibal watches him as he works, his own arms tucked beneath his head and his body lax and melting into the bed. “We should order room service, before it gets any later. Neither of us have had a decent meal since lunch.”

Will nods his agreement as he cleanses the man beneath him, his eyes carefully locked onto his broad, furred chest rather than risk glimpsing what lurks in his eyes. He has probably shut it away by now, now that the post-orgasmic haze is beginning to lift in earnest, but Will is nervous to check and see.

The doctor had revealed something within him for a moment, whether he intended to or not, and it had filled Will with a dark and terrible longing. He wants to peel back that person-suit that seems so meticulously constructed around him, wants to see the monster that lies beneath--because he is suddenly certain, without a doubt, that a monster lurks within him. Possibly akin to Will’s own. Probably even more fierce. But if he sees more than a glimpse, truly comes to know the beast, Will knows with a dreadful certainty that he will love it, and learn to love his own in turn.

Above all else, Will fears what will happen when he stops fearing his darkness.

“Probably a good idea,” he agrees when he finishes his task. He returns to the bathroom to drop the soiled rag onto the floor in the corner. On his way back, he snatches up the room service menu from the table near the door and flops down onto the bed beside Hannibal, stretched out on his stomach. He peruses the menu and ignores Hannibal’s gaze upon him. He also ignores when Hannibal shifts himself, rolling onto his stomach as well, head tucked close and lips pressed to Will’s shoulder as the older man’s eyes join his in scanning the available fare.

“The almond-crusted salmon sounds delightful,” Hannibal murmurs into his skin, and Will nods.

“I’m thinking about the sirloin, honestly. Been awhile since I’ve had a decent steak.”

“Will.”

“Mm?” Will hums, his eyes now boring a hole through the menu in his hands. Hannibal reaches over to pull it away gently, so Will’s gaze refocuses to the pillow in front of him.

“Darling,” Hannibal breathes, brushes away the curls that have fallen to stick to Will’s sweat-slicked forehead. “Come now, you were doing so well,” he chides softly, and then, “Will, look at me.”

It’s not a request.

Will sighs and turns his head, his eyes trailing over slowly until they rest on Hannibal’s sharp face beside him. He was right to assume that the glimpse he had seen before would be shuttered away, but something else lingers on Hannibal’s features in its stead; curiosity, Will thinks, and what he could perceive as hope. He wonders what it is Hannibal hopes for.

“You would do well to embrace your instincts, rather than deny them, Will,” Hannibal says, and his voice is soft and melodic, hooks into Will and drags him further into the depths of darkness like a relentless tide. He can see a glimpse of shoreline, that sanity and control he has fought tooth and nail for years to retain, can see it getting smaller and wonders, not for the first time, if he might be happier when it disappears altogether.

“You’re not even trying to be subtle,” Will accuses him, but that only makes Hannibal’s thin lips curl into a small smile.

“I don’t feel the need,” he volleys back, and then he’s pressing forward again, locking his mouth against Will’s and slipping into him, into the wet cavern of his mouth to dance with his tongue, into the depths of his being to stroke tenderly at that black spot within him, coaxing it to unfurl and break free from the prison in which Will has locked it. 

When they finally pull apart, Will has forgotten what they were even meant to be doing, and Hannibal has to prompt him to pick a dish so they can place their order for dinner. 

He goes into the front closet while they wait to pull out a few robes to don, and that’s when Will notices it. In the closet, hanging next to the spot where the robes had been; a black garment bag and, on the ground next to it, a mid-sized rolling suitcase.

“What’s--did you have _clothing_ sent here?”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him, as though he’s surprised by Will’s surprise. “Did you expect me to wear my rumpled suit three days in a row? My luggage had been sent ahead to Dulles when I missed my flight. I called first thing this morning after making this reservation and had them shipped back.”

Will blinks at him, feeling like he should be more shocked than he is at the thought of Hannibal paying--probably a ridiculous amount of money--to have his luggage shipped _back_ halfway across the country so that he didn’t have to wear a dirty suit for their ten hour drive the next day. The word ‘fussy’ flits through his mind for the third time that day, and Will can’t stop his smile, deciding that it tracks with what he’s learned of the man so far.

Will excuses himself to the restroom to relieve his bladder and finds himself studying his reflection. He has to admit that he’s not nearly as tense as he has been of late, what with the multiple mind-melting orgasms he’s had in the last twelve hours chasing away the stiffness in his frame. He undoes his robe and lets it fall from his shoulders to gather at his wrists, observing first the red love-bites scattered along his neck and chest and then twisting to turn a satisfied eye to the already-purpling marks on his back and shoulders where Hannibal’s fingers had dug into him. When his eyes flicker up to meet his own gaze, his smile comes easily.

Hannibal is beautiful and intelligent, and perhaps just dark enough to survive meeting Will. Survive _seeing_ him. Will hopes so. It’s been very lonely keeping everyone in his life at arm’s length to protect their self and sanity from the sick blaze that constantly threatens to envelope him. How nice it would be, to have someone to stand in the fire alongside him. He only needs to get the infuriating man to quit attempting to dig into his mind. Perhaps he’ll be somewhat sated by what Will has chosen to reveal to him so far. He can only hope for a more pleasant car ride the following day, or he’s at risk of ducking Hannibal for the rest of his miserable existence no matter _how_ compatible they may be.

The doctor is flipping through TV channels when Will emerges from the bathroom, the guide in the 900’s range which boasts a large selection of just about any musical genre one could hope to find. Will watches in silence as he passes hits of the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and multiple Latino-themed stations before settling on ‘The Best of Classical’. He releases a pleased hum as Clair de Lune filters into the room, turning the volume lower until it is a subtle and soothing presence.

Will watches the ‘Did You Know’ facts section of the screen cycle through tidbits that, in all likelihood, Hannibal does already know, and then Hannibal turns toward him and catches his gaze, and for a moment, Will can’t breathe. He drifts closer though, his feet moving of their own accord as though the other man’s ruddy gaze has him under a thrall, until the two of them are nearly chest to chest.

He can’t quite place the expression on the older man’s face; though that dark hunger still lurks beneath the surface it almost appears to have softened. Will struggles to find words, anything to say, and then Hannibal’s hands reach down to lightly grasp at his own and raises them to rest upon broad shoulders. Hannibal’s own hands then land at Will’s waist, wrapping around his sides to hold him gently but securely. He takes another step forward, erasing the scant distance between them, and then he begins to sway.

Will gives up on words, his mind spinning and heart thumping within his chest when he realizes that they are _dancing_ , Hannibal wants to _dance_ with him, just as he’d said earlier in the car. Will has to admit that it is even more pleasant than he’d imagined it would be, especially when it is just the two of them. In private, Hannibal can dip his head down to nuzzle against Will’s cheek, allow his lips to trail along Will’s jawline and down the expanse of throat exposed to him when Will instinctively tips his head aside with a sigh; he’s vaguely aware that his fingers have curled to grip tightly at the shoulders beneath them. Alone, Hannibal can press their hips a little more firmly together, allow them to feel the evidence of arousal that is most definitely shared and flaring with great speed. Will’s gut burns with liquid heat that slithers down to ensare his groin, pools at the base of his spine until he tingles. When it’s just them, Hannibal can press wet kisses along Will’s collarbone, slide his hands up a bit higher on his waist to tug at the loosely-tied sash keeping Will’s bathrobe closed.

Three sharp raps, followed by the announced, “Room service!”, effectively breaks the spell around them. Will jumps, pulling away on startled instinct as though they have been caught doing something improper. His heart only pounds all the harder at Hannibal’s soft sigh as he steps toward the door to receive their dinner. Will’s hands tremble as he tightens the sash around his middle.

He pulls the small table away from the wall a bit, drags over a second chair to sit across from the first as Hannibal accepts a cart from the hotel employee and wheels it in. Will has never indulged in room service before--in all actuality, has probably never even been in a hotel that offers it--and he stares in surprised amusement at the honest-to-God _cloches_ that contain their meals, something he’s only seen in movies, as Hannibal sets them out on the table and begins working the cork on the bottle of wine he’d ordered for them--a rose, as a compromise between Hannibal’s fish and Will’s red meat. 

They take their seats, and when Hannibal raises his glass, Will mimics him. “To new friends,” Hannibal toasts, but the purr in his voice and his foot creeping over to graze fondly against Will’s own forces Will’s mind to place the term ‘friendship’ a million light-years away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading/leaving comments/kudos!
> 
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